Chapter 1

I took three days of sick leave for a minor surgery.

When I returned, the whole school was spreading rumors—that I'd gone to get an abortion.

Ava posted my photo from behind on the forum with a caption: "If you know, you know."

I tried to explain. No one listened.

I pulled out my medical records. They said it could be forged.

My homeroom teacher only said four words: "The innocent need no defense."

Later, thugs blocked me at the school gate, calling me "cheap."

After that, I swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills.

My mom held my ice-cold body and wailed all night.

The next day, she hanged herself from the old oak tree.

Then I opened my eyes again.

My phone screen was lit.

Ava's post had been up for just nine minutes.

This time, I didn't type out an explanation.

I pulled up a photo I'd casually taken at the hospital three days ago—

Ava herself, standing in front of the OB-GYN registration window.

I clicked reply, attached the photo, and typed a line:

"What a coincidence. Are you here for an abortion too?"

**Chapter One**

A dull ache throbbed in my lower abdomen.

I lay on my side in my rented room, staring at the peeling white paint on the wall, waiting for the pain to pass.

Third day after my ovarian cyst removal surgery. The stitched incision pulled and twinged with every movement.

My phone vibrated under my pillow.

Once. Twice. Then it wouldn't stop.

I fished it out. The screen glared painfully bright.

Notifications from the school forum flooded in. The message count stuck at "99+".

I clicked in.

Pinned post. Bold red title—

"Sophomore Class 6 girl takes sick leave? I ran into her at the OB-GYN, if you know what I mean."

The attached image showed someone from behind.

Hospital gown, clutching a blue medical file folder, hair down, walking out of the OB-GYN corridor.

It was me.

Posted by—Ava.

The comments had exploded.

"Holy shit, that bookworm from Class 6? Her image just collapsed?"

"Three days sick leave, OB-GYN, hahaha I get it."

"Getting an abortion and openly taking leave? That's bold."

"Ava never misses when she calls someone out. Waiting for the original poster to explain."

"Poor thing, even teacher's pets have their day."

I gripped my phone. My knuckles turned white.

The swelling pain spread from my abdomen to my stomach, acid rising to my throat.

Then the memories came crashing down.

I remembered the stares in the hallway when I returned to school. I remembered the two red words spray-painted on my desk.

I remembered showing them my medical records to explain, and someone rolling their eyes and saying "probably forged."

I remembered my homeroom teacher leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping the desk: "The innocent need no defense. Don't make a big deal out of nothing."

I remembered the thugs blocking me at the school gate calling me "cheap." I remembered the note slipped under my dorm door that said "go die."

I remembered my mom standing at the office door with a bag of farm eggs, smiling apologetically and saying "Teacher, please help," then getting pushed out and her knee hitting the threshold.

I remembered counting sleeping pills that night. When I got to the thirty-seventh pill, my hand shook.

I remembered that my final conscious moment was filled only with blurred wailing.

My mom collapsed over my already-cold body, crying until she couldn't breathe.

The next day.

She joined me at the old oak tree by our house.

I gasped sharply, my spine jerking away from the mattress.

The surgical incision in my lower abdomen tore with a line of searing pain.

Real pain.

I looked down and saw the gauze bulging under my hospital gown.

The stitches had been removed today.

I'd returned to my rental this morning.

The post on my phone—

I glanced at the posting time.

Nine minutes ago.

I was alive again.

My heartbeat hammered against my ribs. Heavy and dull.

At this moment in my past life, I'd been crying under my covers.

I'd cried all night, drafted over a dozen explanatory messages, deleting and retyping, typing and deleting.

The next day I'd returned to school with swollen red eyes and medical records, beginning the final month countdown of my life.

This time, I didn't cry.

I didn't type.

I opened my photo album and scrolled back.

Three days ago in the hospital waiting area, I'd casually snapped a photo of the lobby to send my mom and let her know I was okay.

In the bottom right corner of the photo, in front of the OB-GYN registration window, stood a person.

High ponytail, white T-shirt, school jacket draped over her forearm.

Her ID card sat on the counter.

Ava.

In my past life, I'd never opened that photo a second time.

Back then I'd been too busy explaining, begging, being afraid.

I couldn't even hold onto my own life. Who had time to wonder why Ava was at the OB-GYN too?

But this life was different.

This life, I knew.

I opened the forum and found Ava's post.

1,200 comments already.

I pressed "reply."

Uploaded the photo.

Typed word by word—

"What a coincidence. Are you here for an abortion too?"

Send.

I set down my phone and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling.

The incision still hurt.

But something in my chest had ignited, rising from my stomach, burning until my eyes stung.

It wasn't grief.

It was hate.

In my past life, I'd begged everyone on my knees.

This life, no more kneeling.

Half an hour later, I picked up my phone.

Comment count: 1,487.

The top comments had completely changed.

"Wait wait wait, Ava was at the OB-GYN too??"

"I zoomed in—that really is Ava!"

"The timestamps match! Same day!"

"So when Ava was photographing someone else, she was registering herself??"

"The bookworm just counterattacked hahaha!"

"Ava babe, who really got the abortion?"

"Waiting for the school belle to respond."

My inbox had exploded too.

First message from a classmate: "Sophia, are you crazy?! Do you know what Ava's like when you provoke her?"

Second, third messages from strangers, all "666" and spectator emojis.

And one more.

From Ava.

Two words—

"Delete it."

I stared at those two words.

**Didn't you say in my past life that the innocent need no defense? Panicking now?**

I didn't reply.

I shoved my phone under my pillow.

Closed my eyes.

Tomorrow I'd return to school.

The real show was just beginning.

**Chapter Two**

Ava's messages kept coming.

"Sophia, are you insane?"

"Where did you get that photo?"

"I'm warning you, delete it right now, or don't blame me for what happens."

I didn't reply.

The forum had already gone wild.

Ava's fans and bystanders were fighting like mad.

"Ava was at the OB-GYN? What's going on?"

"Reminder: OB-GYN doesn't just treat pregnancy, they treat other gynecological issues too. Ava might have just been getting a regular checkup."

"Then Sophia might have been getting a regular checkup too! Why didn't Ava say that about her?"

"Shot herself in the foot lol."

"Don't pick sides yet, wait for the school belle's response."

Ava's fourth message came through.

Her tone had changed.

"Sophie, is there some misunderstanding between us? That post was really just a joke. I'll delete it tomorrow. Can you delete the photo too? Let's both stop this, okay?"

Sophie.

She called me Sophie.

She'd called me that in my past life too.

On the third day after the whole school mocked me, she "ran into" me in the cafeteria, smiled and put her arm around my shoulder: "Sophie, don't take it to heart. Everyone's just joking."

Then she turned around and sent a voice message in her group chat: "This is too funny, she actually believed it."

I typed.

"Ava, I'm not going to argue with you on the forum. Just answer me one thing."

"That day at the OB-GYN, were you seeing the doctor for your aunt or your uncle?"

Send.

The "typing" indicator in the chat box flashed once, then disappeared.

One minute.

Three minutes.

Five minutes.

I stared at that silent conversation.

In my past life, after Ava's situation was completely exposed—which happened after I died—many things came to light.

I didn't know what happened to her after.

But I knew why she went to the OB-GYN.

I knew who that "uncle" was who picked her up every Saturday.

I knew what she feared most.

At the six-minute mark, Ava's messages exploded.

"What do you mean?!"

"Are you stalking me??"

"Sophia, are you sick? Do you even know what you're saying!"

"My aunt is in that hospital! What's wrong with visiting her??"

"If you dare spread lies I'll make sure you can't stay at this school!!!"

Five messages in less than a minute.

Every word dripped with cracks.

I replied with one word.

"Oh."

Then closed the chat.

Twenty minutes later, Ava's original post on the forum was edited.

A new paragraph appeared—

"Let me clarify for everyone! That day I was visiting my aunt who was hospitalized~ I happened to pass by the OB-GYN corridor and saw a certain classmate. I just thought it was a coincidence so I mentioned it casually, no malicious intent! As for the photo that certain classmate posted—I was at the registration window helping my aunt register~ Hope everyone views this rationally and doesn't over-interpret♡"

Seconds later, supporting comments popped up in perfect formation.

Uniform rhythm, similar wording, obviously pre-arranged.

"Sis said she was visiting her aunt, stop stirring things up!"

"Sophia's photo only shows Ava standing at the window, doesn't show what she was registering for. Taking things out of context."

"The bookworm got called out so she's viciously biting back, classic."

Public opinion began to sway.

Some people swung back to Ava's side.

Others were still watching.

But it was so much better than my past life.

In my past life at this point, the comments were completely one-sided.

Because I'd done nothing.

I'd only hidden under my covers refreshing the page over and over, watching those comments drown me alive.

This life, at least half the people were asking—"So why exactly was Ava at the registration window?"

That was enough.

The first cut didn't need to go too deep.

Making her panic was enough.

I rolled over and put my phone on silent.

**You think you can get away with making up "visiting my aunt"? Ava, your aunt wasn't at that hospital that day. I checked in my past life. This life, I'll make sure everyone can check too.**

Tomorrow back to school.

The real show hadn't even started yet.

**Chapter Three**

When I walked into the school building, people in the hallway parted to make way.

Not out of respect.

Out of spectacle.

Whispered buzzing, elbows nudging elbows, some people holding up phones to film me.

A laugh came from behind: "That's her."

I pushed open the back door to Class 6.

The buzzing chatter in the classroom cut off.

Forty pairs of eyes turned toward me in unison. Too uniform to be natural.

A few boys whistled.

"Yo, the bookworm's back—"

"All recovered now?"

I didn't look at them.

Because I saw my desk.

Two words spray-painted on the surface.

Red paint.

Large.

"SLUT."

The paint hadn't fully dried. The edges bled into rough tendrils.

The pungent chemical smell rushed in, stinging my eyes until they watered.

My chair lay overturned on the floor.

Books from my desk drawer scattered everywhere, textbook pages torn to shreds.

The classroom went silent for a second, then erupted in laughter.

Someone applauded.

Someone filmed with their phone.

I stood there, hands at my sides.

The incision in my lower abdomen started aching from walking too much.

I scanned the classroom.

In the back row by the window, Rachel sat with her head down playing on her phone, fingers tucked in her sleeves.

But I saw a bit of red at the edge of her sleeve.

Third row, class president Ethan sat ramrod straight.

His gaze met mine for a moment.

Then he looked away. Lowered his head, staring at the open textbook in front of him.

In my past life, I'd gone crying to him.

He'd said: "Sophia, stop making trouble. The more you make a fuss, the worse it gets for you."

Then closed his pen cap and turned his head toward the window.

I remembered that sentence for a whole lifetime.

That lifetime was very short.

**You saw. You always saw.**

**But you chose to pretend you didn't.**

The laughter continued.

Someone shouted: "Sophia, that paint cost a lot of money. Consider it a welcome gift."

I didn't wipe the desk.

Didn't cry.

Didn't explain.

I pulled out my phone from my pocket.

Opened the camera, aimed it at my desk, pressed the shutter three times.

Different angles, capturing the red words, the overturned chair, the shredded textbooks.

Then switched to my contacts.

The classroom laughter gradually faded.

Because they saw the three digits on my phone screen.

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